John
I rush from the history wing to the dining hall. I am famished, haven't eaten since breakfast. Thank goodness history is my last class of the day, because I wouldn't be able to endure but a minute longer confined to a classroom. The second the bell rang, I ran out the door and am now shoving my way through the throngs of students as I make my way to the hall. Thankfully, the buffet is already laid out. Thankfully, my usual table in the corner is free. I hurry to it, fling my satchel over one of the chairs to claim it, and snag a spot in line behind someone whose inky black curls and pressed button-down shirt (ironed by me; he's too lazy to do his own laundry) scream Sherlock! Evidently, his lithe frame has carried him here faster than me. Damn. My faux anger is a hard cover to keep, I am genuinely glad to see him. Besides chemistry, we don't have any courses together, which is upsetting because our interactions up the interest level of the course tremendously. He obviously recognized my approach, because he turns around and grins.
"Hey, John," he says, and his grin morphs into something more mischievous. Suddenly, he grabs my waist and pulls me close, whispering in my ear, "you know, we could skip out on dinner and just head upstairs."
"Not in public, Sherlock," I hiss as I flush a dark red. The stubborn ass that he is, Sherlock takes my indignation as fodder for his playfulness and proceeds in planting a kiss smack on my mouth. In the middle of the bloody dining hall! "Besides, I'm hungry, you fool," I say after wrenching my mouth away. I slide out of his grasp, but take his hand in mine.
"Eating is BOOOORING, John!"
"Yeah, well normal people have to do it or they feel faint, like me. So shut it or I'm not laying a hand on you for a week!" That seems to do the trick, because he relents with a sigh. I ladle heaping piles of mashed potatoes and chicken on a plate, topping it off with a few biscuits. I can feel his snide smirk behind me, so I snarl "shuddup. I'm HUNGRY!"
"I didn't say anything John." He is trying to hide his laughter at my façade of anger.
"You were going to! Just let me eat!" We navigate to the table I've reserved, only to find Greg Lestrade there. Lestrade is a mate, so it's cool. He knows about Sherlock and I, so we can be a little more liberal with the public displays of affection. Correction: I can stuff my face, and Sherlock can try to be as affectionate as he can with me otherwise directed. I'll make it up to him, though. Sherlock tries to keep up a normal conversation with Lestrade, but he's not exactly the most skilled in conversation that is non- academic or flirting related. It's all I can do not to scoff into my mashed potatoes.
"So you and John. Going steady, eh?"
"I guess so."
"You two still…together?"
"Would I be eating at this table at this proximity to him if I weren't? The feelings of shame associated with breakup would distance me at least two or three tables. God, Lestrade, don't be such a dunce." I've always wondered why Lestrade put up with him. I guess he's impervious to Sherlock's many darts, because at this blow, he cracks a smile.
"Good," he says, "I'd be worried that you might murder him if you guys broke up."
"I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Lestrade, not a psychopath. Do your research." With this, Lestrade actually laughs.
"I'll be off then, studies. Not two late, you two." He slouches off, and looks so utterly alone that I'm actually remorseful at his departure. But then I glance to Sherlock, and am glad Lestrade left. Sherlock turns to me, takes the fork from my hand, puts it on the table, and asks me if I'm done. I assent, and with the fork still in his hand, he kisses me, insistently.
"Good, because we've got a lot of studying to do." And then he takes my hand and we race up the staircase to room 221B.
"Sherlock, I actually— (snogging)—actually have to study! Be reasonable!"
"This is reasonable! It's perfectly reasonable to make out with your boyfriend on a Friday night! We're seniors, John, at the top of our class. Live a little!" It's not like I can argue with that, so at the top of the staircase, we pause for goodness knows how long. Sherlock fumbles blindly for the door and somehow wrenches it open. Inside the darkened room, my entire world seems to downsize to Sherlock alone—the electricity of his skin against mine, the way his harsh nature suddenly reverses and becomes gentle when I am in the picture. I am so overwhelmed by my sudden blast of affection that I wrap my arms around him and just hold myself there, perfectly suspended. I reach up and trace the contours of his face with my hands, then yawn because damn, no matter how exciting making out with him is, I am so freaking tired! I tousle his hair, then pull away.
"Hey, I'm gonna go shower. Don't wait up."
"Oh, I will." His voice lowers as he adds, "It'd be a pleasure." And then he raises an eyebrow and a tingle races up my spine.
"Fine, Sherlock. But don't expect anything too fun because I'm beat."
"You're always beat."
"Am not."
"Normal couples would be going…places by now."
I step over and ruffle his hair. "Well, sorry to point out, but you're not normal. Besides, it won't be special if we go and do it out of pure lust, Sher."
"But JAWWWWN—,"
"Sher, I'm gonna take a shower. You can wait up, but you're not getting anything besides snogging out of me tonight."
"JAWN. Okay, okay, fine. But that snogging is going to be the hottest snogging you have ever experienced in your life. I guarantee it."
I roll my eyes. "I'm sure. Now, let me take a shower or you'll rue the day you get close to me! Git! And if you try to watch me in the shower, I will end you."
"My eyes are glued to the book. See?" He holds up my extremely boring history textbook. God, he is such a flirt. I roll my eyes and smirk as I slam the door to the water closet.
I push open the door, a bathrobe secured firmly (with boxers underneath, in case Sherlock is feeling frisky) (correction: because Sherlock is feeling frisky). He's lying on the bed, and look at that! The fool decided to kip on my cot! I guess he's more tired than he let on. I don't object to sleeping with him in the most literal sense, so I take off the robe and crawl next to him. He wakes, but only long enough to kiss me lightly and wrap an arm around my shoulders. "Wait, Sher—," I say, and he opens one eye, and I add, "I love you." He smiles, and that memory brands itself into my mind as I drift off into oblivion.
The first thing I hear is a rapping at the door.
"Whatwho'stherewhat'sgoingonwha…?" Sherlock slurs through the dregs of slumber. Then a head pokes around the corner, and I see that it's Lestrade. Damn, that boy needs to learn some personal space. He's barged in on us making out at least three times already, but it's usually with a large concern, so I forgive him. But c'mon, it's only—I pull out my wrist from under Sherlock—"THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING? GODDAMMIT LESTRADE!" Sherlock growls as he notices my watch. "GET A DAMN GIRLFRIEND—OR BOYFRIEND, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHICH—BECAUSE YOU WOULD NEVER BE HERE INTERRUPTING JOHN AND I ALL THE DAMN TIME IF YOU WERE TIED UP SNOGGING SOMEONE YOURSELF!" The energy this outburst required spent, Sherlock flops back under the covers. Lestrade winces at the rage Sherlock hurled at him, but then clears his throat and delivers the blow.
"There's been a murder, Sherlock."
Sherlock raises his head, all signs of sleep gone from his eyes, which are sparkling. "A murder! Give me details, Lestrade!"
"Get dressed and downstairs." He shoots me a glance. "Bring John. He's good at chemistry, we need him. We don't want the police involved."
"We'll be there in a moment." Lestrade nods and shuts the door. The second the door slams, Sherlock jumps up. "Brilliant!" he shouts, all traces of his former anger gone. "A murder! John, this is Christmas!" He grabs me by the shoulders and swings me around, then kisses me smack on the mouth. We stand there for a while, absorbed, but, remembering Lestrade's instructions for haste, we dress and fly out the door, hands clasped. We are quite the duo.
We arrive in the commons area, a hall adjacent to the dining room. It is dark, dingy. Instinctively, I move closer to Sherlock, whose arm snakes around mine. I've never seen a dead body, not even at a funeral. I wonder how gory it'll be. I am now regretting that meal. I'm wondering how Sherlock can be so nonchalant about the death of a classmate (I am dating a SOCIOPATH) when we pull up short.
She's just lying there. Cardigan, sweatpants, all traces of life present except for breath. No visible wounds, thank goodness. Still, it takes all my self-control to repress the heave that rises in my throat. Sherlock notices my discomfort and makes an effort to tamp down his obvious…elation? By God, he likes this. He's getting a rush. I would be turned on by his excitement, but in this situation, I am disgusted. I avert my eyes.
Lestrade approaches. "No sign of a wound, probably poisoned—was it suicide?"
Sherlock eyes the corpse, angles his head, then speaks. "No. Judging by her proximity to the dining hall, she was poisoned in there. Someone spiked her food. Also, you can see the traces of chicken grease on her fingertips. The same grease was present on John's fingers after he ate…the chicken…" Suddenly Sherlock whirls to me and grabs my shoulders. "John," he sputters, "are you alright, are you feeling sick in any way—,"
"I'm fine, Sher. I mean, as fine as I can be standing next to a corpse. I mean, she's been dead for a while. If I were poisoned, we'd have seen the signs a while ago."
"Fair enough." Sherlock pauses to pat my shoulder reassuringly and cup my chin, and then his attention is back on the corpse.